


spellbound in the night

by dramaturgicallycorrect



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Quidditch, Quidditch World Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaturgicallycorrect/pseuds/dramaturgicallycorrect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall turns his brilliant smile to him, moving his hands from his own face to cup Liam’s. He leans in swiftly and plants a big kiss right on Liam’s lips, which effectively shutters Liam’s brain to a halt. Niall’s leaning back a little, taking Liam with him, their lips still pressed firmly together, but not moving. He can’t do anything with his hands or his brain or his mouth, the entire noise of the celebrating stadium fades away, because everything is Niall, kiss, Niall, Ireland, Niall, Quidditch, Niall, Niall, <i>Niall.</i></p><p>[Or Niall takes Liam to the 2010 Quidditch World Cup.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	spellbound in the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunshinexbomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinexbomb/gifts).



> Hello sunshinexbomb, it was an absolute privilege to pinch hit this for you! You asked for Hogwarts Niam, and this is... well, Hogwarts-adjacent. I hope it suits your fancy! :D
> 
> Eternal gratitude to my Deputy Chief of Staff and the Prime Minister for their brilliance in plotting, encouragements, and beta-ing. 
> 
> Title is from "Witchy Woman" by the Eagles.
> 
> In the interest of Harry Potter canon, I have to tell you that the 2010 Quidditch World Cup is between Moldova and China, with Moldova winning. But since this isn't at all real, please excuse the divergence.

His mum starts crying the moment they enter the Birmingham city limits, as she always does when Liam leaves his parents to go off and do something magic-related without them. He wishes they could come, truly, he thinks they’d like Quidditch. They’ve never even seen him play, because there’s nowhere in Wolverhampton he can just bust out his Thunderbolt V and give them a demonstration.

It’s difficult how much he can’t share his life with them, even though they swear it’s all fine.

They park against the kerb and his dad gets his sleeping bag and rucksack out of the boot while his mum fusses over him, smoothing out his fringe and plucking stray bits of fuzz from his jacket.

“Mum, it’s just France,” Liam says gently.

“I know,” she sniffles, so he pulls her into a hug.

“And Niall’s meeting me on the other side. You like Niall.”

She nods. “He’s a nice boy.”

Liam agrees. He’s a very nice boy, has been since Liam met him on the pitch a few years ago. Niall’s the best chaser in school whose Quaffles never got blocked -- not until Liam came along, that is, when he worked his way from Beater to Keeper in his fifth year. Everyone had expected a bitter rivalry -- laughable, really, a rivalry between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor -- but Niall had never been anything other than kind to Liam. Greeted him in the corridors, wished him luck against Ravenclaw and Slytherin (but never Hufflepuff).

Liam had been pleasantly surprised when Niall started sitting next to him in the Great Hall the previous year, invited Liam along for unsanctioned Quidditch scrimmages, partnered with him in their shared classes, offered to help him with his potions homework, since Liam had stupidly decided to attempt a NEWT in almost all of his classes.

Liam pleasantly surprised himself inviting Niall round to his for a week last month to live, as Niall called it, “on the Muggle side of life.” Now it’s Niall’s turn to return the favor, taking him to his first proper wizard-only outing outside of Hogwarts grounds. Liam hasn’t been able to sleep for days in his excitement.

“I’m going to be late,” he says when he’s not sure his mum’s going to let him go.

“All right then, Karen,” his dad says, rubbing a hand up and down her back until she detaches. “Got your wand, lad?”

“Yes,” Liam answers, even though he’s still a week out from being able to use it outside Hogwarts grounds.

“Be safe with the, uh,” his mum starts.

“Portkey. I will.”

“Right. And give us a ring when you land?”

“I’ll try,” Liam promises, but he thinks they block phones at these sorts of things. “If I can’t, I’ll send an owl to the house?”

He knows she doesn’t like the owls. They both get a visit from nosy Mrs. Braverman next door whenever Liam sends a letter home, but it’s the only thing he’s got.

He gets a few more kisses and a lot more tears until he’s allowed to head for the arena doors, rucksack in one hand, sleeping bag in the other. It must be a strange sight, a kid taking camping gear inside the Barclaycard Arena, but thankfully the place is pretty well deserted.

He heads to the door specified on his ticket and meets a lone security guard, done up in the uniform with a radio and all. Liam eyes him as warily as the guard eyes him back, neither of them obviously wizard-looking.

“Ticket,” he prompts, so Liam shows him the Portkey ticket. “You’re almost late.”

Liam apologizes, but the bloke doesn’t care. He turns on his heel and starts walking through the arena, Liam scrambling to keep up. Liam’s footsteps echo in the empty corridors as the guard winds them through all the way out onto the floor. There’s about six other people waiting on him, two mums and a gaggle of little kids all standing around a mic stand in the middle of the floor. They all turn their pinched faces to Liam in unison, like they’ve choreographed it specifically to embarrass Liam, even the kids.

He’s instructed to grab hold of the mic stand, so he crouches to grasp at the top of it, nestling his hand under the two mums but above the gaggle of kids. They all go eerily silent in anticipation, their huffed breaths nowhere near loud enough to permeate the whole arena.

He’d read all about this sort of thing before he’d agreed to do it. It’s supposed to be safe, dependable, with far less risks than Apparition, that’s for sure. But that doesn’t do much to quell his nerves as one of the mums starts slowly counting down from ten.

At one, there’s a tugging at his navel, like he’s being jerked backwards, and he thinks for a moment his hand’s going to be yanked away from the stand and he’s going to go flying off Merlin knows where, lost forever. But the trip’s over before it even begins, really, and Liam lands on the ground roughly to a cool voice saying, “Thirteen past one in Provence.”

\--

He barely keeps his feet under him, stumbling a little to remain upright as he inches back from the mic stand, but it’s all for naught when he’s bowled right over. He slams backward into the damn grass, the whole world turning in such a way that threatens to nauseate him.

“All right, Payno?” Niall asks, grinning down at him. He’s still resting on top of Liam like there’s nothing wrong with it, careless to the rest of the world that has to sidestep their way around the two of them lying in the middle of the lavender-dusted arrival field.

“All right,” Liam says, matching his grin. It’s only been a month, but Liam’s missed him something fierce. “You?”

Niall crosses his eyes and throws on a deep, mocking voice, “All right.”

He rolls off Liam and onto his feet in a swift move, holding a hand out to give Liam assistance he doesn’t need to get to his own feet. Liam takes his hand anyway and hauls himself up. Niall takes his rolled sleeping bag under one arm and throws his other over Liam’s shoulder.

“Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup,” Niall announces, gesturing towards the field ahead of them.

It’s unlike anything Liam’s ever seen before, an infinite sea of tents sprawled out as far as he can see. About twenty or so kids are flying around above the tents, tossing a Quaffle between them, and Liam wishes he had thought to bring his broomstick. They weave their way through hundreds of families cooking out in fire pits and playing games, narrowly dodging being knocked over by running, screaming tots.

Niall’s going on about the new Anti-Muggle security measures this year, how it’s the first World Cup campsite to be run purely by wizards, how they’ve got coverage for _satellites_. Niall’s particularly proud of how much he knows about satellites, loves reading about them on the Internet. Niall’s also a big fan of the Internet. And Liam’s phone, which only works within about ten feet of the Portkey landing site -- long enough for him to text his parents before the screen shutters to black.

Niall’s stopped every few meters to shake hands or trade hugs with people clad in green, white, and orange. Every single one of them appears to be some sort of cousin of Niall’s, Liam forgets all of their names, but Niall makes sure to introduce him to each and every one of them as his Best Mate Liam.

Liam’s cheeks burn at the title at first. He hadn’t been aware of how highly Niall thought of him, though he supposes if he thinks about it, Niall is his best friend.

He’s got friends, sure, his Quidditch teammates and boys he’s shared a dormitory with over the years, but they were only friends when they were around each other. They rarely sought Liam out like Niall did, and Liam never really felt comfortable seeking anyone out on his own. Niall’s always been there, though, making sure Liam left his room on the weekends, introducing him to a few of his other friends. It’s kind of a miracle watching Niall work the crowd, he seems to have a secret joke with everyone. Liam sees why they’ve made him Head Boy.

There aren’t any Brazil fans, Liam notes, wondering if they’ve got to keep them separate for a reason. He’s heard of a few good stadium carpark scuffles in his time when things get a bit heated after a football game. He can’t imagine how much more dangerous it’d be if they added wands into the mix.

“This is us,” Niall announces, gesturing at a modest green canvas tent with a couple of logs out front.

Liam raises his eyebrows. He knows how many people Niall said were staying with them. It’s gonna be a tight fit, but Liam’ll volunteer to sleep outside if he has to.

“Look who I found wandering about,” Niall’s dad says as he walks up, Liam recognizes him from the pictures Niall keeps of him. He looks a bit like Niall, ruddier and a bit puffier, but the resemblance is pretty uncanny.

He pushes forward Harry Styles, a peculiar Ravenclaw from their year with a big grin and even bigger curly hair. He gathers up Niall into a side conversation to leave Harry beaming, dimples on at full force, over at Liam.

“I’m so glad you made it,” he says warmly, clutching at Liam in a hug like they haven’t only maybe spoken five times to each other in their entire life. “Niall hasn’t talked about anything else since you said you’d come.”

Liam’s grateful for the hug, then, if it means he can hide the blush that he knows is coloring his face.

“This is him then?” Mr. Horan asks once they’re pulling away.

“Yeah, this is Liam,” Niall responds with a big grin, almost like he’s proud of the fact. Liam wishes that were the case, he’d love to be something Niall was proud over.

It takes a lot for Liam to look away from Niall to offer his hand to Mr. Horan, but he somehow manages it. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“None of that,” he answers gruffly, clutching at Liam’s hand. “Call me Bobby.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bobby,” Liam amends with a smile. He glances back over at Niall and he swears this time, Niall does look proud.

Niall tells him to drop his stuff on the ground outside the tent, which Liam does quickly, because Niall’s dragging him away across the field over to a large cart full of World Cup merch. They’ve got stuff for both Brazil and Ireland, even in this part of the camp. Liam doesn’t even know where to start, most of it just seems like crap he’d never use again.

Liam decides he needs the giant green top hat with a bewitched dancing shamrock on it purely because of the look on Niall’s face when he puts it on his head. Niall’s eyes scrunch shut and his mouth goes all screwed up and he honks out laughter. Liam loves his laugh -- he gives actual, hearty _ha ha has_. It’s brilliant.

“You should get that, Liam,” he says, his eyes still twinkling as he starts poking at the rest of the merchandise in the traveling saleswoman’s cart.

“I think I will,” Liam says, pulling it off to give it another look. It’s a hilarious hat and he’s not brought a single green thing with him.

Something catches Niall’s attention quickly, a little trinket he passes between his two hands, like he’s not sure he wants to get it.

“What’s that, then?” Liam asks.

“Nothing,” Niall says, dropping the thing in his hands swiftly onto the tray it came from and shuffling away from it. Liam sneaks a glance, it’s a little figurine of Neymar, the Brazilian Seeker, complete with pouty face and neon yellow robes. The Neymar figure stiffly rolls to its feet and stands at its neutral position, with its arms behind its back and its feet spread.

Niall will go to his grave claiming he’s an Ireland man through and through, but Liam knows he’s got a thing for Neymar. His eyes get a little misty when he reads Quidditch scores in the Prophet. Liam will never call him on it.

“These are one of our top sellers, Omnioculars,” she says, catching Liam’s attention with a pair of shiny, brass binoculars. “It’ll replay any action you’re watching, give you the play-by-play, statistics, the lot. A bargain for only nine galleons.”

“Ooh, those are sick,” Liam says, suddenly glad he’d spent half the summer cutting lawns. He presses them to his eyes and peers around the field, zooming in on Harry chatting animatedly away at Bobby, who stands with his arms crossed, silent but bemused. He glances over at Niall. “Hey, do you think I should ask Harry if he wants one?”

“Nah, he’ll just say some shite about wanting to _live in the moment_.”

Niall has this way of rolling his eyes with both impatience and fondness whenever he’s talking about Harry, Liam’s noticed. He tries not to think much of it, tries not to wonder what Niall does when he’s talking about Liam when he’s not around. Liam’s a bloody great embarrassment himself, can’t keep the smile off his face whenever he’s talking about Niall, apparently.

Niall ducks down to poke at the Ireland jumpers at the bottom of the cart, so Liam scoops up the Neymar figure, the shamrock hat, and the pair of Omnioculars and pays for them quickly. He plops the hat back on his head, and tucks the figure in his pocket until he decides when he wants to give it to Niall.

Niall gets a hideous knit jumper, like something your nan would make you for Christmas, except Liam thinks it’s ugly on purpose. Niall slips it over his shirt even though it’s about 26 degrees out. They return to their part of the camp to find Harry crouched over their fire pit with a couple of bits of wood in his hands, and he looks extremely frustrated.

“What on earth are you doing?” Niall asks.

“Trying to start a fire with this wood.” Harry frowns. He huffs so the mop of fringe will flutter up out of his eyes, but all it does it flop around before settling back where it was.

Niall looks at him like he’s an idiot. “You’re surrounded by literally hundreds of witches and wizards, surely one of them’ll do you up an _incendio_.”

“I wanted a _proper_ Muggle camping experience,” Harry mourns, knocking the two sticks together as if that’s going to do the trick.

“I’ve got it,” Liam says, taking the two sticks from Harry before he hurts himself.

“Liam was in the Scouts,” Niall says knowledgeably like he didn’t just learn what the Scouts were last month.

Harry looks suitably impressed, though, when Liam’s explaining to them about tinder and kindling. He sends them off searching for firewood just so they don’t hurt themselves, and he’s got a small fire burning by the time they get back.

They leave Harry to struggle with the kettle he’s trying to set up over the small pit of flames, so Liam can drop his bag off inside the tent.

Nothing about their tent is like a proper Muggle camping experience, because it’s not so much a bit of canvas propped up on some sticks as it is a fully furnished spread. Liam knows he’s gaping a bit, and he doesn’t much care. He hopes to never come to the day where he ceases to be astonished by magic.

“It’s a Tardis tent,” he whispers.

“A what?” Niall asks.

“Bigger on the inside?” Liam tries, but Niall still shrugs. That’ll be the next thing they watch together, then, after all the Batmans.

Niall points over where his cot is and explains how he’s set up Liam’s next to him. So he didn’t actually need to bring his sleeping bag. He guessed they’d be roughing it when Niall told him it was a campsite. Liam dumps his stuff on his bed.

“We’re nearly ready to go, better take your shirt off,” Niall says.

“I’m sorry, what?” Liam stutters even though he heard Niall quite clearly.

“I’m gonna paint your chest. You’re orange, we can’t do the flag without orange. Off ya go.” Niall’s got a tray of orange paint in his hands and a sponge. He’s prepared for this, then. Niall flaps his hands at him until Liam is emboldened enough to unbutton and peel off his shirt.

Louis wolf whistles from where he’s appeared suddenly, leaning against a support pole and twirling his wand between his fingers dangerously as he surveys the two of them. His chest is already painted green.

Liam frowns over at him. It’s been a few years since he’s seen Louis Tomlinson but it’s clear nothing’s changed. He’s just as much of an arse now as he was on the pitch. Niall whips around to flip him off and tell him to go fuck himself when Liam presses his shirt back to his torso.

“Don’t listen to him,” Niall tells Liam quietly. “We need you, Leemo. We can’t scandalize the world with Harry’s four nipples and Zayn won’t take his shirt off. It’s gotta be you.”

Liam doesn’t tell him he’s sure any number of Niall’s forty cousins would happily volunteer to get done up in body paint. This is something he wants to do for Niall, with Niall. Niall gently tugs at Liam’s shirt until Liam lets go of it, silently cursing how easily he’d agree to do anything just because Niall Horan asked him to.

Niall surveys Liam’s chest, then runs all ten of his fingers lightly down his skin, from his collarbones to his navel. Liam doesn’t shiver, he won’t.

“Excellent canvas,” Niall adds with a ridiculous French accent and does the thing that chefs do where they kiss their fingers and toss them up like bon appetit.

Liam watches him carefully sponge orange paint at his tummy, Niall’s tongue resting between his teeth. He tries not to breathe so heavy as he thinks he needs to given how close Niall’s face is to him and how delicate Niall is painting him. It almost tickles, but he stifles his giggles for Niall’s sake.

When he deems his work done, Niall takes a step back. He surveys Liam very seriously, his eyes raking up and down to study Liam like he’s a work of art. Maybe he is. Niall’s work of art.

Then he dips his thumb back into the paint and smears a line across Liam’s forehead.

“Simba,” he says, maintaining a straight face for a few moments before breaking away to howl with laughter, his eyes pinching shut.

Liam beams and chuckles himself, happy just to be part of the joke, happy Niall remembers enough of the day Niall got his Head Boy letter and Liam got his Quidditch Captain letter. They were too wired to sleep, so stayed up until dawn watching every Disney movie Liam owned, both pretending not to get a little teary when Mufasa died.

“All right, let’s go,” Niall says with a clap of his hands after he wipes the spare paint on his hands directly onto his trousers.

“Hang on,” Liam says, catching Niall’s hand, “don’t you need some paint?”

“Nah. I’m the middle of the flag.”

“So?”

“So Niall is so pale if you painted him white, he’d get tanner,” Louis says.

“Shut it, Tommo,” Niall says, but he’s smiling. “Just for that, it’s your turn to wake Zayn.”

Louis goes to object, making a high-pitched squawking noise that cuts off at the appearance of Niall’s scowl. Louis heaves a sigh, long suffering and dramatic, before he lumbers off into the tent to go pull him out of bed. Liam’s heard stories at school last year. He doesn’t envy Louis, but he also wouldn’t volunteer to spare him the trouble either.

“But you are going to take your shirt off, aren’t you?” Liam asks when he’s gone. In the interest of fairness. Not for any other reason.

“Sure thing,” Niall says with a wink.

\--

He forgets the Neymar figure is in his pocket until it starts squirming and gives him a good shock. He glances about -- Zayn’s still half-asleep as he trudges next to Niall’s brother Greg. Bobby’s leading the pack, otherwise oblivious to what they’re doing. Harry and Louis have been arguing the benefit of a Seeker for the last twenty minutes, like Harry doesn’t know full well that Louis was, as he self-proclaimed, “the best damn Seeker Hogwarts has seen since Harry Potter himself.”

“The points structure is just unfair,” Harry implores. “One hundred and fifty points just for the actions of one player? If you think about it, the opposing team can score fourteen times, _fourteen times_ , and still lose a game. That’s a whole team playing together to make fourteen goals, but the efforts of one player can still dictate whether they win or lose?”

“Do you know how much fucking work it takes to find the Snitch?” Louis asks.

“It’s the spirit of teamwork, Louis!” Harry shouts, but he’s still grinning.

“Hey,” Liam says and holds out his palm to Niall. Niall looks at it and his face softens when he sees the little Neymar, struggling a little to get back to its feet. Niall reaches his hand up and grasps Liam’s like they’re going to hold hands for a bit. Liam likes the feel of Niall’s warm hand against his, likes how easily their hands fit even with the figure between them.

Niall captures the figure and inspects it, clearly pleased at Liam’s token. “Ta,” he says quietly.

“What is that?” Louis asks, apparently very suddenly bored of arguing with Harry.

“Nothing,” Niall says again, his fingers curling around the figure to hide it.

“I saw it. It’s a mini-Neymar,” Zayn says. Of course he’s seen it, it’s the ones you think will pay the least attention who end up paying the most attention, isn’t it.

He and Louis sigh together, like they’ve done this a hundred times before, breathe dreamily, “Neeeymaaaar.”

Niall’s cheeks go red, but he presses on like he’s otherwise unaffected by their teasing.

“I live for you, I long for you... Neymar,” Louis sings, draping himself over Harry’s shoulders as though he were swooning. Harry laughs and pats absently at Louis’ face.

Niall flips them both off.

“Oi, don’t let Bressie hear you sing that, mate,” Bobby laughs from ahead of them. “He’ll have your head next time he comes round.”

Liam stops in his tracks. “Sorry, do you know Niall Breslin?”

“Yeah, Brez is a top lad. He’s from Mullingar, isn’t he?” Niall says like it’s obvious.

Nobody’s waiting for him, so he scrambles to keep up.

“Sorry, you know Niall Breslin?” Liam repeats because his brain is still stuck on that and there’s no turning back. Niall just knows one of the biggest stars in the British and Irish League, let alone the reason Liam became a Keeper. That’s just… fine.

“I think you’ve broken him, Niall,” Zayn says.

“Ahhh. Seems our Liam has a type,” Louis crows.

“Oh yeah?” Niall asks. “What’s that?”

“Lads called Niall,” Louis answers with a smirk. Liam thinks he’s going to pass out from embarrassment, but Niall takes it in stride like he always does.

Liam throws him a wide eyed look, imploring him with everything he’s got to _bloody well shut up_ , but Louis just winks at him.

Niall throws his arm around Liam’s shoulders and says, “Well, I don’t blame ya, we’re a good breed.”

Liam ducks his head and doesn’t give the confirmation on the tips of his lips like he wants to.

The walk to the stadium feels like it takes miles. Liam had been genuinely surprised they couldn’t see it from the camp, but the stadium ends up being hidden away pretty well. They’re almost lost in a sea of green and white and orange -- Liam and Louis are notable exceptions, sticking out like sore thumbs with their non-compliant shirts, but they’ve been tasked to strip as soon as the match starts. At least Liam’s got the shamrock hat going for him.

Liam gapes a little when it comes into view. It’s opulent, breathtaking, looks a bit like the pictures of Notre Dame he’s seen. And that’s not even the pitch, which he’s read is among the most expensive Quidditch pitches ever constructed. This is hardly an equal trade for taking him to see Inception at the Cineworld and splitting some peri-peri chicken at the Nando’s. This is too much.

“Niall,” he starts, but he’s interrupted.

“It’s sick, eh?” Niall grins.

“Yeah, it’s sick,” Liam breathes, even though that doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Glad you’re here.”

Once they’re at the gates of the stadium, they’re led past the security wizards waving their wands over everyone’s robes. Bobby shakes hands with just as many people on their way to their seats as Niall had done just a few hours before. Liam glances over at the rest of them, and they don’t seem to notice at all. It must be business as usual then.

They’re led up to the Top Box with several high ranking members of the Ministry of Magic that Liam recognizes from the Daily Prophet. He knows Bobby works with the Irish division of the Ministry of Magic, but he’s not exactly sure what it is that Bobby does.  

He inches his way over to the edge to get his first look out at the pitch and he can’t believe his eyes. It’s not a simple field -- though he guesses he wouldn’t have expected just a simple field -- but a beautiful garden with flowers planted in intricate designs and a marble fountain spouting water in the center of it.

“It’s modeled after the gardens at the Chateau de Versailles,” Harry says, squeezing in with Zayn next to him.

“Fancy,” Liam notes, raising his Omnioculars to get a better look at the fountain. It’s all very posh.

“Very,” Harry agrees.

Liam scans the stands, watching anxious fans shuffle into take their seats, Butterbeer salesmen make their rounds, and trying to spy any hint of the Irish team lurking about.

“You remember Harry of course,” he hears Bobby say, so he turns around to see them.

Bobby’s got a rather important looking silver-haired man in impeccable robes stood beside him, and Liam’s suddenly very glad he buttoned up his shirt over his painted chest. In all honesty, it’s a bit of a stretch to make a good first impression when he’s got a top hat with a dancing shamrock on his head.

“Young Mr. Styles, yes,” the older man says, “is Anne about?”

“I suspect she’ll be around,” Harry says, flashing a smile and shaking the old man’s hand. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“Studying hard for your NEWTS, son?”

“Of course, sir.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good lad.”

“This is Zayn Malik, he’s just begun his apprenticeship in the Centaur Liaison Office,” Bobby says, gesturing to Zayn, who’s found his way to the other side of Harry. Zayn waves lazily, otherwise unimpressed, and Liam can see an irritable twitch in the corner of the gent’s mouth.

“And this is Liam Payne. This is Maximilian Berthwell.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Liam says, shaking his hand, even though he hasn’t got a bloody clue who this one is.

“Payne, did you say?” His eyebrows quirk up, interested. Liam can’t think of a single reason why he’s cause for interest, though. “Is the Paynes, owners of the Wimbourne Wasps?”

Well, that explains it. They sound far more impressive. “No, sir.”

“Perhaps I knew your grandfather, Augustus Payne, British ambassador to the New Zealand Ministry of Magic?”

“No, sir, my parents are Muggles,” Liam says when he can’t stand the guessing game any further.

“Ah,” he says, plastering a thin smile on his face that doesn’t do much to hide the judgment behind it. Liam can read it on his face, he’s not an idiot. A Muggleborn in the Top Box, rubbing elbows with loads of very important people. “Well, that must be... novel.”

Liam gets it enough that it doesn’t bother him anymore. Or at least he tries not to let it get to him, but there’s one too many whispers of the m-wordin the corridors sometimes weigh down on him. It’s not like him to tell, he knows there’s hell to pay if anyone is caught saying it. The second you get someone in trouble though, the worse it gets. Liam knows that too well.

So Liam ignores it, shifts his eyes over to Harry, who looks uncomfortable, and Zayn, who looks irritated, but he’s surprised when Louis shifts in front of him and snaps, “You wanna watch your tone, mate?”

Liam knows at least two of his half-sisters are Muggles, thanks to his step-father also being a Muggle. Even though he’s a Pureblood by birth, he won’t associate that way. He’s a Tomlinson and he’ll tell that to anyone who asks. He’s still a bit astounded Louis said anything at all, whether it’s in his own defense or in Liam’s.

“Tomlinson,” Berthwell says, turning the strained smile to Louis. “Give my regards to your mother. If you will excuse me.”

“Fucking twat,” Louis hisses after him. Liam’s pretty sure Berthwell heard, but he’s not sure he cares all that much.

Bobby’s chuckling, clapping Louis on the back and mumbling a “Serves him right, doesn’t it,” before he wanders back off to the crowd of other important looking adults.

“Louis, that’s the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority,” Harry says with wide eyes.

“Yeah, well, I got a T in my History of Magic OWL, so what the hell’s he ever done for me?” Louis says. He squeezes one of Liam’s shoulders and scoots away to join Niall at the spread of food in one corner.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, but Liam shrugs it off.

Niall’s friends are great -- really, sometimes even Louis -- but they’re still Niall’s friends. So he doesn’t expect anything of them. He doesn’t expect them to jump to his defense because Liam’s used to either jumping to his own defense or ignoring the problem until it just goes away. He doesn’t know what to do with Harry’s pity or Zayn’s silent indignation or Louis’ anger. Or even if he should do anything with it.

Niall’s waving a plate of pumpkin pasties and other sweets in his face before long. He’s got a grin on his face like there’s nothing wrong in the world, and Liam supposes there shouldn’t be. Not when he’s here, at a place as brilliant as the World Cup with someone as brilliant as Niall.

\--

“The 1990 Final went on for _five days_ , can you imagine,” Harry starts up again as soon as they settle into their seats outside the box, snatching up the ones closest the railing so they won’t have to look over anyone to see out into the field.

“Five days?” Liam squeaks. “But we’ve got school next week.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Payno,” Louis mocks, reaching over Niall to give him a patronizing pat to the shoulder, “we’ll get you to school.”

Liam makes a face at him, and Louis makes one right back. It was a short-lived truce.

"No dragon is to be introduced into the stadium for any purpose,” Harry says, “including, but not limited to, team mascot, coach or cup warmer."

Harry’s been reciting facts from the Quidditch rule book for the last half hour. He’s an endless repository of Quidditch knowledge, it seems, but he’s not on the Ravenclaw team. When he asks Niall why not, Niall just laughs in his face.

The lights around the field start to flicker dramatically just as the sun slowly begins its descent. Liam can feel the stadium-wide, collective inhale of anticipation, and he and Niall lean forward to the rail in a move that could have been synchronized.

“On behalf of the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee, I would like to welcome you to the 2010 Quidditch World Cup final!” says the voice of the Wizarding Wireless Network himself, Nick Grimshaw.

The crowd explodes into screaming and applause, the five of them right there with them, shouting like they don’t care if they’ll be able to talk tomorrow.

“We’ve got a formidable match ahead of us today, with the Irish National Team, the true underdogs, who haven’t seen a World Cup final in almost twenty years, and Brazil, whose Seeker, team captain Neymar, has captured the Snitch in every World Cup match so far this year,” Grimshaw announces.

Niall nudges into Liam’s shoulder, holding up his cup of butterbeer for Liam to knock his own against.

“Slainté,” Niall says, to which Liam answers, “To Ireland.” They knock back their drinks as Grimshaw starts nattering on about the sponsors.

The mascots performances are a spectacle, unlike any show Liam’s ever seen before. The Brazilian mascots are announced first, introduced to a shower of green, yellow, and blue fireworks and triumphant horns.

Curupiras, the Omnioculars tell him as soon as Grimshaw is announcing it over the stadium. He presses at a button and his left eye is greeted with what looks like a page from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Curupiras, Liam learns, are red-haired, forest-dwelling dwarves with backwards-facing feet to confuse hunters into following them the wrong direction.

He tries to zoom in on their feet just to see what they look like, but they’re all running around the garden in some sort of coordinated maneuver.

“ _Esquadrão de Ouro,_ ” the crowd starts to chant, but are hushed soon enough when the curupiras disappear and Grimshaw’s voice announces the arrival of the Irish National Team’s mascot.

Green and gold glitter explode from the fountain, shimmering down through the air where they seem to disintegrate before ever reaching the ground.

The booming sound of bagpipes overtake the stadium as leprechauns bound onto the field, tumbling and jumping over each other in a feat of brilliant acrobatics before taking flight in an arch across the field, a rainbow forming in their trail.

Harry’s off doing his own thing to Liam’s left, flopping his arms about wildly. Zayn and Louis nod their heads along with the occasional sway to the music. But Niall, he’s giving it his all, hopping up and down, kicking his legs out in some sort of jig of his own.

Liam tries to keep up -- he’s not as coordinated as Niall, but he’s doing his best. Niall cheers and claps Liam on in tempo, and, emboldened by Niall’s support, Liam jumps higher. Niall loops an arm through Liam’s and they try to hop around as best they can in the limited space between their seats and the railing.

The leprechauns take their final flight then, showering what looks like gold down onto the crowd as they swoop around the stands before disappearing into the air. They all reach forward over the railing, their fingers grasping desperately at the gold. Liam manages to get a couple in his hands and holds them out to the others. They look like small rocks with flecks of gold in, rough when Liam turns them over in his hands.

“Fool’s gold,” Harry says, almost like he’s disappointed.

“Well, leprechauns aren’t giving out actual gold, are they, Harold,” Louis says, plucking one of the rocks from Liam’s hands and pocketing it anyway without asking.

Liam hands the other one to Niall because he likes to give Niall things. He wants to give Niall everything, honestly, but he’ll settle for some things. Niall beams at him, tucking the piece of fool’s gold into his pocket where he knows the little Neymar is.

Liam doesn’t think the crowd can get any louder than it already has been, but the sound they make when the Brazilian team is introduced is nothing short of deafening.

“Announcing, your Brazilian National Team,” Grimshaw booms, and they fly out when they’re called, “Galvão, Christiane, Hulk, Ronaldinho, Costa, Marta, and…” He pauses for dramatic effect, and Liam can feel Niall’s breath catch his chest in anticipation. “Neyyyyymaaaaaar!”

Liam cheers because Niall’s cheering, even though Louis’ hollering abuse at him as he takes his captain’s lap around the stadium. Brazil loop intricately around each other, their brilliant yellow robes giving them the look of bees swarming around a hive. They feint and swoop and dive like it’s a dance, a tease of the aerial acrobatics they are all known for.

“And now, your Irish National Team…”

Niall deftly peels off his ugly jumper and his shirt in one go, so Liam gets working at unbuttoning his own shirt. He glances down the line when the three of them are shirtless, and he thinks when they’re all jumping around, they do look a bit like a waving Irish flag.

His eyes drag too long on Niall’s pale chest, which admittedly he’s seen before. Last month, Niall spent more time just lounging around Liam’s room in nothing but his pants than he did with proper clothes on, he thinks. It still makes Liam breathe a little heavier than he should, so he tears his eyes away just in time to watch the Irish National Team take the pitch.

“Whitmore, McDermott, Gilsenan, Sadlier, Devine, McIlroy, and Breeeeeessssliiiiiiin!”

Liam’s hat bobbles a little precariously as he screams and jumps and cheers; he’s got to keep steadying it on his head.

“Go on, big head!” Niall roars as Breslin takes his tour, as though he can actually hear him.

Breslin joins his crew again, and they fly as one, a solid unit moving with swift and complete synchronization, as though they’re all so in tune to each other they don’t even need to think. It’s order and structure, every inch as awe-inspiring as the organized chaos of the Brazilian team.

The two teams land gracefully in formation, lining up on the sidelines and tucking their broomsticks firmly into their sides. The referee stands in between Ireland and Brazil, holding her own broomstick behind her back.

“We ask that you join us for a moment of silence for those who lost their lives in the Riot of ‘94,” Grimshaw says, and a hush falls over the crowd.

Liam removes his dancing shamrock hat quickly, shoving it behind his back. He’s heard of the Riot of ‘94, though it was so much more than a riot. Liam had been a baby, the fact that he was a wizard hadn’t even entered the realm of possibility for his family. But he knows Niall lost an uncle that day, sees the restrained grief in the way Niall’s jaw locks up.

He snakes his around Niall’s back and rests his arm against Niall’s lower back, fingers pressing in gently against Niall’s bare skin. Niall leans into him a little, but otherwise makes no other indication that he wants to be comforted, if he wants to be comforted.

The moment of silence ends, but neither of them move from each other. None of the orange on Liam’s chest seems to rub off, but he thinks if he tugged Niall closer like he wants to, they’d be in danger.

The match starts in a flash, there’s no warming up the crowd. The Bludgers and Snitch are released, the Quaffle is tossed, and they’re off. Liam’s torn whether he wants to watch through the Omnioculars to observe individual players really close, or getting the full picture. He ends up being too taken by the action to ever remember to lift the damn things to his eyes anyway.

The game is incredible, better than every match Liam’s ever seen and played in, combined and then multiplied by seven.

Liam laughs, delighted to find one of the Brazilian beaters is nicknamed the Hulk -- a chuckle he’s only able to share with Louis. Any time he gets a good thwack of a bludger in, the crowd picks up a furious chant of _incrível, incrível, incrível_.

McIroy himself scores twelve times in the first two hours, but every time he gets one in, Brazil matches them when the Hulk nearly takes Breslin out for the count with a couple of well-placed Bludgers. Niall starts spitting and swearing the second Brez’s in danger, like he’s fixing to find a broomstick and fly out after the Hulk to personally seek retribution. Liam might join him.

The match last hours and hours, and Liam doesn’t worry for a second about losing interest, because every minute of it is intense, dramatic, full of surprises and nail-biters. He barely wants to leave his seat, but at some point they’ve all got to wee or make quick runs for food and drink, straining to hear any sort of indication that the Snitch has been sighted.

Neymar makes a sudden dive about seven hours into the game, just minutes after midnight, McDermott hot on his trail. Liam snaps the Omnioculars up to his eyes, pressing them so close he’s probably going to leave rings on his cheeks, but it’s worth it because he thinks he can even see the Snitch. There’s only forty points difference between the two of them; this catch will make the game.

He can feel Niall’s leg bounce next to him, and he chances a peek over at him even though they could be seconds away from the match’s end. Niall’s got the little Neymar clutched in one hand at his chest, the other hand worrying at his lips.

Neymar’s too focused on the Snitch to sight the Bludger Gilsenan heads his way. It knocks him straight in the head, sends him sagging dangerously forward on his broom like he’s threatening to fall off. Niall gasps, his eyes flicking forth between McDermott and her surge for the Snitch, and Neymar slowly sinking his way to the ground.

McDermott closes her fingers tightly around the Snitch, and the Irish half of the crowd go absolutely mental.

Grimshaw’s shouting out triumphant commentary, dropping all pretenses to show a clear bias towards Ireland. Neymar’s charmed safely to the ground as Ireland make their victory laps around the stadium.

Liam’s screaming, louder than he’s ever done before. He can see Harry losing his mind next to him, jumping up and down, his eyes bugged so big they might pop. He turns to Niall, who’s got his hands pressed to his cheeks like he’s about to have a breakdown.

Liam presses closer to him to be heard over the roar, and shouts, “Ireland!”

Niall turns his brilliant smile to him, moving his hands from his own face to cup Liam’s. He leans in swiftly and plants a big kiss right on Liam’s lips, which effectively grinds Liam’s brain to a halt. Niall’s leaning back a little, taking Liam with him, their lips still pressed firmly together, but not moving. He can’t do anything with his hands or his brain or his mouth, the entire noise of the celebrating stadium fades away, because everything is Niall, kiss, Niall, Ireland, Niall, Quidditch, Niall, Niall, _Niall_.

Niall pulls away with a smack. Liam wants to chase after his lips, do it again, kiss him until they’re both paralyzed -- it’s only fair -- but he can’t. Instead Niall bellows right in his face, “IRELAND!” and turns away to shout over at Louis and Zayn, who are clutching at each other desperately in celebration.

Liam’s stuck still in shock for a few moments more, trying to jumpstart himself into action. Niall _kissed him_ , and he felt it in his veins. The kiss feels important in a way he doesn’t think it should. It was just a celebratory thing between mates, he thinks, though he doesn’t see him reaching over to kiss Louis or Zayn. He didn’t wait for Liam to kiss him back, if he even wanted Liam to kiss him back. He didn’t push deeper; he didn’t explore the way Liam would explore if he had the chance.

He couldn’t really, not with Liam standing like a catatonic prat with his arms hanging limp at his sides instead of grabbing at Niall’s hips or stroking at Niall’s jaw or lacing his hands through Niall’s hair like he wants to. He doesn’t know what the hell Niall was thinking or expecting. Liam doesn’t know if he was offended or got the reaction he was going for. Honestly, Liam didn’t even know that he wanted this in the first place.

All Liam knows for sure is he wants to do that again. He just doesn’t think he’ll get another chance.

He turns away to find Harry staring at him with wide, wild eyes, his mouth dropped open in shock until it slowly starts to curl into something like a grin. Liam’s got a blush crawling up his cheeks. Harry puckers his lips at Liam, reaching his hands out, but Liam just covers Harry’s whole face with his hand and gently pushes him away.

\--

He’s poking at the last few bits of stone cold treacle tart still on the refreshments table when Niall sidles up to him, the first time they’ve really focused on just each other since they had kissed. He gets it. The post-match celebration has been mad, it’s nearly two am, there are loads of people about that all want a piece of him, and Liam gets it. He’s good to keep puttering about on his own until they’re ready to head back to the tents.

“Hi,” Niall says, his voice as loud as his eyes are bright.

“Hi, yourself,” Liam answers, pressing a smile on that he doesn’t entirely feel.

He throws his arm around Liam’s shoulder and starts to guide him off into the crowd of celebrating witches and wizards, a sizable portion of them drunk off of too much fire whiskey. Niall looks like he may have slipped a sip or two himself, if the dopey grin on his face is anything to go by.

The arm instantly calms Liam, though, reminds him how much he likes being the center of Niall’s attention, how special it is when Niall’s chosen you to focus on.

“Got a surprise for you,” Niall says.

“Yeah?” Liam asks. He’s not hoping it’s another kiss. That’d be asking too much. Not that he’d say no, given the chance. He doesn’t know how he’s going to keep looking at Niall like he used to. He figures Niall will be able to see it on his face, the way Liam feels like he’s seconds away from asking Niall to kiss him again now that he knows how great it is.

“Yeah,” Niall says mysteriously, guiding Liam gently through the crowd to the other corner of the box.

“All right, chief?” Niall Breslin says, knocking Niall gently alongside the head like you would a younger brother.

He’s got a nasty bruise forming around his eye from the Bludger to the face courtesy of the Incredible Hulk. Liam can’t stop staring at it, at the bruise Niall Breslin got just a few hours ago during the Quidditch World Cup, the very same Quidditch World Cup he captained his team to a victory. It’s Niall Breslin, towering over the two of them, looking every inch the greatest Keeper the British and Irish League has ever seen. And he’s just talking calmly to Louis and Harry.

“Sorry about the face,” Louis’ saying as they walk up.

“Nothing to be done, it’s the one I was born with,” Breslin jokes.

Liam stutters out a laugh, this awkward thing that’s the literal opposite of cool and collected. Louis’ eyes widen as he turns to Liam, surely cataloging that away as just another thing to make fun of Liam for. “Bullshit play if you ask me, though.”

Breslin waves Louis’ concern off. “You should see the one Neymar’s nursing on his eye, oh, it’s nasty.”

“Well. An eye for an eye,” Harry says, to everyone’s groan.

“Brez,” Niall says, “this is Liam, the one I was telling you about.”

“Right, the Gryffindor Keeper,” Breslin says, and Liam swallows another laugh of surprise that Breslin knows who he is. “Niall says you’ve been giving him a bit of trouble on the pitch.”

“Um,” Liam says instead of anything in the English language.

“He’s an odd one,” Niall says, squeezing Liam’s shoulder. “Seems to have this strange fixation on winning. Very bad for business.”

“Good for my business, though, have you ever thought about playing professionally, Liam?”

“Only all the time,” Liam says dumbly.

“If you’re as good as Niall says -- ”

“He is,” Niall interrupts, matter of fact, and Liam’s cheeks flush at the compliment.

“I can see about sending some scouts your way this year,” Brez says, taking the interruption in stride. “Not for my club, obviously, I’m quite keen to keep my job. How does that sound?”

“Yes please,” Liam says, embarrassingly loud.

He chuckles and says, “All right, I’ll see what I can do. Gotta go shake some more hands. You lads have a good night, yeah?”

“Yeah, go on, Brez,” Niall says, slapping at his back and turning to Liam. “Well?”

Liam just blinks at him. “You told Niall Breslin about me?”

“He tells everyone about you,” Louis says before he’s knocked into by Harry. “Oi,” he snaps, but Harry keeps pushing him away, saying something about Zayn calling for the two of them.

It’s nonsense, Zayn’s across the room talking to a bird who looks like she could be a Veela, from the look on his face. But Harry, the little shit, he’s pushing Louis away so Liam and Niall could be alone together. Liam doesn’t want them to go -- he’ll even stand silently and let Louis take the piss if it means Liam doesn’t have to address The Kiss.

He doesn’t want to hear Niall tell him it’s just between lads. He doesn’t want to smile and tell Niall of course it’s between lads, he doesn’t need to be told. He doesn’t want to face the fact that he doesn’t want it to be a just between lads thing, because he knows Niall would figure it out in a second.

He’s about to suggest to Niall they should follow after them when a booming voice tells them they’re closing up the Top Box and it’s time to head back for the camps. Niall leans into him, resting his head gently against Liam’s neck, and Liam wraps an arm around his waist. It doesn’t feel awkward; it just feels right.

\--

Bobby’s gone to bed hours back, but the five of them are determined to greet the morning, still buzzing too much for sleep. Niall’s seated on Liam’s log, slowly strumming his way through Celestina Warbeck’s back catalog on his guitar, currently struggling through “Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys, and Chuck That Quaffle Here” to match the occasion.

“What the hell are those?” Zayn asks as Harry finally comes back from wherever he disappeared to half an hour ago.

“I got them off the American birds three tents down,” Harry says, settling down on his log and tearing at the package. “They’re called hot dogs.”

Liam can’t bear to watch Harry struggle with the plastic for very long. He reaches over and plucks the package of hot dogs from Harry’s hands, pops it open, and hands it back to him. Harry grins in thanks and pulls out a hot dog, wiggling it disgustingly between his pinched fingers.

Zayn’s face pinches with disgust. “They’re not made from dogs, are they?”

Liam can barely hide his laughter, presses his hand firmly to his mouth to muffle the sound. It’s not fair to laugh at them for things they don’t know about the Muggle world, because they don’t laugh at him whenever they have to teach him something about life as a wizard.

Louis takes to explaining what a hot dog is, and by the end of it, they all understand why it is wizards haven’t any interest in them. They decide to eat them anyway, a pre-dawn snack.

Liam starts at the wood in the fire pit so they can cook the hot dogs. He rolls his hands down the spindle until a far larger flash of fire bursts up from the fireboard than should for the amount of work he’s doing, nearly burning his hands. He jumps back a little, the spindle dropping out of his hands, and he knows what’s been done the second he hears Louis’ crowing laughter, bright sparks flying from his wand.

Liam stands abruptly, and he turns on his heel for the tent. He’d spent the entire walk back to the camp enduring Louis’ inevitable impressions of Liam fangirling over Brez, his ears growing hot in embarrassment any time someone had chuckled at him and fueled the fire.

“Liam,” Niall says, his hand stilling on the guitar.

“It’s all right, I’m knackered,” Liam says with a smile he doesn’t feel. “You lads have a good night, though.”

He slips through the flap in the tent before anyone can argue, if they want to argue. There’s no reason he should need to stay up with Niall’s friends if they don’t want him around. He doesn’t mind jokes, is the thing. But jokes are only fun when you’re in on them, not when you’re the butt of them.

He toes off his shoes and slides into his cot, draping his sleeping bag over him because it is a bit nippy, even for summer. He stares up at a peak in the canvas, which sort of reminds him of his four poster bed in the Gryffindor Tower. The hushed voices outside drift quietly like the echoes of voices from the Common Room.

He misses school if only because it’s like having a purpose, something to get up and do every day. He gets restless. This summer’s been restless, which is why it’s been full of cutting lawns and waiting for Niall to come around.

Now he’s gone and ruined it though, thrown a little strop and ran away to sulk. Niall’s not going to think that’s very cool of him. Niall’s cool, Niall lets things roll off him. Liam’s not even sure if he’s seen Niall angry, like properly angry, more than sports angry. He’s worried Niall might finish with him, that if the five of them don’t get along and Niall has to choose between Liam and them, Niall’d choose them. Liam wouldn’t even argue against it. He’d be sad to see Harry and Zayn go, at the very least, but that’s nothing compared to how he would feel about the loss of Niall.

The tent flap flutters a bit, like Liam’s heart, until he realizes it’s not Niall that’s come in. It’s Louis.

“You still pouting?” Louis asks, his arms crossed.

“Yes,” Liam says, because it’s the truth.

Louis moves forward and drapes himself over Liam’s legs. He’s heavy, it’s uncomfortable, but Liam won’t kick him off. He just sits and waits for Louis to say something, but Louis, for once in his life, doesn’t say anything.

“Niall send you in to apologize, then?” Liam prompts.

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “How very dare you, Liam Payne.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“Yes, it’s a yes,” Louis snaps, crossing his arms. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

“Well, you haven’t actually apologized yet, have you.”

“Well, I’m not entirely certain I’ve done anything worth apologizing for.”

It’s frustrating how Louis turns on a dime, how one second he looks like he’s going to cut someone for saying something rude to Liam and the next he’s just as rude to Liam himself. How he means his non-existent apology, but then refuses to give one. Liam could ignore it, like he always does, but he realizes, if he doesn’t say anything about it, nothing’s ever going to change.

“You’ve been a bit mean to me.”

“It’s just banter! That’s what we _do_ , Liam, we take the piss, we rag on each other,” Louis explains, his hands flapping. “That’s what we do.”

“That’s what you do,” Liam repeats slowly.

“Yeah, you’re one of us, that’s what we do.”

Liam hesitates. One of us. He’s one of them, one of their friends. They don’t think of him as Niall’s friend, he’s their friend too, just as much as they’re his friends.

“I thought you hated me.”

“You? Who could hate you? That’s nonsense,” Louis dismisses.

Liam raises his eyebrows in disagreement, but that’s as far as he’s going to go to refute it. He can think of a few people who might hate him on principle. They met one of them earlier.

“Listen to me, Liam,” Louis says, his voice growing sharp and serious. Of course he knows exactly what Liam was thinking. “People like that, they’re not fucking worth your worry. Not a single one of them is worth even a second’s worth of time in your mind. That happens again? I’ll come for them. We’ll all come for them. That’s what we do. All right?”

“All right,” Liam mumbles, his face growing pink. He believes him, he believes every word.

“All right,” Louis says, patting Liam on the chest. “For what it’s worth, I am,” he adds, lifting himself off the cot and looking down at Liam. “Sorry. That is.”

“Thanks,” Liam mumbles.

“I’m gonna let you stay here and feel sorry for yourself if you want to, mate. But Niall didn’t invite you all the way out here to have a sulk in the tent like a moody teenager. You’re family now. Respect that.”

“I will,” Liam promises just before Louis leaves.

He has been a bit of a twat, though the others didn’t appear to be anything other than friendly -- even Louis, now that he understands Louis’ definition of friendly. It’s just most days he can’t really believe Niall’s his mate, let alone considers him a best mate, so it has all seemed a bit too good to be true.

He’s still trying to figure out a way to tactfully apologize when the flap opens again. This time it is Niall, guitar in his hand and tentative smile on his face.

“All right, Payno?” he asks, padding forward towards him.

Liam sits up, scooting aside in hopes that Niall takes the hint and sits next to him. “All right. You?”

“All right.” Niall gently rests his guitar on the ground in front of them and takes a seat next to Liam, his thigh pressed gently against Liam’s. “D’ya have a good day?”

Liam shrugs. “Wasn’t bad, not much special happened.”

Niall barks a laugh, gets a few good _ha ha ha_ ’s in. “Really? Nothing at all.”

Liam tries to fight his impulse to smile, wants to keep the charade going. He wants to be cool and collected, not give all his cards away, be more like Niall. It’s just, he’s never learned to play anything close to the vest, he doesn’t know how to play coy. He can keep ignoring his feelings the way he ignores the bad things in his life, but the fact of the matter is… If he doesn’t say anything about it, nothing’s ever going to change.

“A boy kissed me,” Liam says, and that’s about as bold as he’s going to get.

Niall hums and smiles softly, dropping his eyes to his knees. “Might know a thing or two about that.”

“I really fancy him. Honestly, Niall, the day was fine, but mostly I’d just like to kiss him again,” Liam admits.

“Okay,” Niall says like it’s that easy, and leans in.

Liam’s ready by the time Niall’s lips reach his, parted softly to catch them. Liam moves his hands this time, gently resting one on his hip and the other coming up to cup his jaw. The kiss is worlds better than the first one, if only because Liam gets to participate this time.

They kiss about as wild as they can with their mates outside and Niall’s dad asleep on the other side of the tent, which is not that wild at all. It’s a patient kiss, and they collaborate to make it feel like magic.

Liam presses a few quick kisses to Niall’s lips before he’s willing to pull away. He ducks his head, resting it against Niall’s chest as they sit and hold each other. Liam feels a bit small, but also safe with Niall’s arm around him, like he always has.

“Waiting ages for that, I was,” Niall says eventually.

Liam shifts so he can press a kiss at Niall’s chest. He figures Niall can read the _me too_ in it.

“I hope it was me you were talking about,” Niall says. “You weren’t kissing any other boys.”

Liam laughs. “I actually meant Louis, you know, he was just in here, but I guess I could settle for you.”

Niall chuckles and gives him a fond, “Twat.” Liam’s satisfied. This is what they do.

“You’re my best mate too,” Liam says because he never said it earlier. “More than that.”

Liam thinks he can feel Niall’s smile even though he can’t see it. He feels it when he thinks he hears Niall’s heartbeat, when he feels Niall’s fingers trace delicate patterns along his back.

“Yeah, more than that,” Niall agrees softly.

Everything happened today, the truth be told, it was a perfect day through and through. Saw his team win the best Quidditch match of his life, met his personal hero, made a few friends, kissed his favorite person. It feels like his own victory, though there wasn’t any competition.

Niall shifts a little, so Liam looks up at him to find his eyes are bright like he’s got a brilliant idea. “Hey, does this mean you’ll let me score against you now?”

Liam laughs and leans up to capture Niall’s lips in a quick kiss before he says, “Not a chance.”

\----

 

**Author's Note:**

> If bits of this seems familiar, it's because I expanded on a [tumblr prompt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4942888/chapters/11345626) I wrote a while back to write this fic.
> 
> If you need me I'm [here.](http://wickershire.tumblr.com/post/133951463218/title-spellbound-in-the-night-rating-general)
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!!


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